Layla’s eyes widened, her jaw dropped, like some cartoon version of a shocked face. “Do you even hear yourself?” Her voice rang louder than intended. “You’re completely delusional. Madison Brooks had no one else to look after her? Is that the story you tell yourself?” She rolled her eyes and lowered her glasses back onto her nose. “Don’t act like you don’t like the attention,” she said, going for one final dig. “Isn’t this exactly why you moved to LA—so people would talk about you? So your face would be in every tabloid, every blog? So you’d be inundated with interview requests? You should be thanking me, but I won’t hold my breath.”
She pushed her bike onto the street, a satisfied smirk sneaking to her lips when he scrambled out of her path.
“You don’t get it, do you?” He followed alongside her. “Your blog’s a hit, you’re still in the contest, but none of that’s a coincidence.”
She should’ve moved on. Should’ve gunned her bike and gotten the hell out of there. But instead she stayed put, looking at Tommy, unsure what he meant.
“Ira Redman’s a lot of things, but he’s not an idiot. His fake attempts to ax you are all a big show. It was never gonna be you. What happened in there—” He hooked a thumb toward the Vesper, flicked his hair from his eyes. “That was Ira’s way of challenging you to escalate the drama. The only question is: Will you? Will you throw us all under the bus for the win? Just how far will you go, Layla, to get what you want?”
The question hung heavy between them. Dissolving the moment, Layla gripped the throttle and said, “I came here to win, same as you. And that’s exactly what I intend to do.” Then she sped onto the street without once looking back.
FORTY-TWO
THE HAND THAT FEEDS
Tommy watched Layla speed away, his hands involuntarily clenched by his sides. She was smart, shrewd, and capable of reading people in a way that often surprised him. And yet, when it came to Ira Redman and the game he’d conned them all into playing, she was like a blind man slipping behind the wheel of a Ferrari, too caught up in the power and excitement to see the danger looming ahead.
Okay, maybe conned was an overstatement. They’d all gone into the interview with the clear goal of landing the job, and it wasn’t that Ira hadn’t made good on his word. But after observing him for the last several weeks, Tommy had learned Ira Redman was no altruist. He never invested in anyone or anything without expecting a sizable return.
He was challenging Layla to keep up the dirty work—to continue writing about the more salacious events at his club without fear of repercussions, or at least not from him.
No such thing as bad publicity—and in the world of nightclubs, the more scandalous and sordid the story the better.
Of course Tommy had no way to prove his suspicions, but then he didn’t have to. It was Ira Freaking Redman—always scheming, always angling—an expert when it came to maneuvering every person, every situation, in a way that served him. Just like he’d done with Tommy’s mom and the child he insisted she abort. He didn’t want to be tied down, so he gave the order, moved on, and never looked back.
He treated life like a giant game of chess and the rest of the players were pawns. Where the contest was concerned, they were all puppets in his twisted theater, with Ira yanking the strings. There was virtually no limit to the metaphors Tommy could use to describe the situation he’d found himself in, and yet, clear as it was to him, Layla refused to see the truth.
“Tommy? Tommy Phillips?”
Tommy ducked his head low, shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and made for his car.
“Hey, Tommy—we were wondering if you might give us a word. . . .”
If nothing else, his brief experience in the spotlight had taught him the paps always started off more or less pleasant, like potential friends in the making just looking to connect, only to turn in an instant. Dissing Madison, hurling insults—he’d learned that the hard way on his earlier foray into Starbucks.
“Go away.” He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see a telephoto lens inches from his face. “I said fuck off!” He advanced on the guy, blocking the lens. He was over photogs, gossips, tabloids, and the rest of those bottom-feeding, low-life scumbags who made a living documenting other people’s misery. Still the guy refused to give up.
“How’s Madison?” he shouted. “Have you talked t
o her recently?”
Tommy narrowed his focus on the guy’s nose, imagining how it might look smashed against his right cheek.
Deciding he might as well punch him to see whether the end result looked anything like the mental picture, he raised a fist, about to make contact, only to watch the asshole grin with the anticipation of filming the assault.
Fuck it. Tommy shook his head. It’s not worth it. Without a word, he turned, aware of the photog chasing behind him, shouting insinuations, insults about his hookup with Madison, while Tommy struggled to maintain his cool, reminding himself he’d be out of there soon.
Or not.
He stood beside his car, staring in disbelief at the four flattened tires—all of them slashed.
“What the—” Tommy whirled on the pap, who was busy photographing the damage. “You responsible for this?” He rushed him, fully committed to punching him in the nose after all, when a shiny, chauffeur-driven black Cadillac SUV pulled up alongside him, and Ira lowered the window and barked, “Get in.”
Tommy shook his head. He wasn’t interested in Ira. He had a trashed car and a photog inexplicably taking pictures of the damage. This was his mess to handle, and he would, if Ira would stay the hell out of his business.
“It wasn’t a question.” The door sprang open.
Tommy cursed under his breath, took one last lunge at the photog, if only to scare him, then reluctantly slid onto the seat beside Ira. He listened in stunned silence as Ira gave the driver Tommy’s home address, reciting it from memory, before turning to him and handing over a fat envelope stuffed with what could only be cash.